


Gluttony

by Rare Night Boy (ponchard)



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series), Dimension 20: Fantasy High, Dimension 20: Fantasy High Live, Fantasy High, Fantasy High Live, Fantasy High Live: Sophomore Year, Fantasy High: Sophomore Year - Fandom
Genre: (not exactly but tagging in case people need to blacklist it), BDSM, Body Horror, Body Image, Body Modification, Bondage, Complicated FTX Feels(tm), Corruption, Crack, Crack Relationships, Deal with a Devil, Devils, Dom/sub, Dominant Gorthalax, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, Enemies to Lovers, FTM, FTX, Feeding, Fluff, Gilear can’t say no to food, Gluttony, Hell, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Masculinity, Mind Control, Painplay, Partial Mind Control, Permanent Body Modification, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rarepair, Seven Deadly Sins, Sexual Tension, Submissive Gilear, Temptation, Testosterone, The Armor Stand Is T-Shaped, Transmasculinity, Unsafe Bondage, Urination, Verbal Humiliation, Vomiting, Watersports, altered mental state, and nothing gives this exvangelical more glee, anyway you might notice he never takes the armor off, because society will allow it, but even I cannot possibly comprehend Gilear taking the lead, but it DOESN’T affect people’s understanding that the armor is causing it, but ugh overloading someone with such desire, crackship, damnation, even if everyone else must starve, even to overflowing, falling, feeder, haha I’m so hungry you guys, he could - if he needed to - say “take me out of the armor”, is such classic Satan stuff, is “soul peril” a tag?, look usually I enjoy role reversals, maybe someone from the Hot Gilear delegation can show me the light, not super graphic vomiting but it’s in there, or their ability to ask/beg to have the armor removed, overfeeding, passing into privilege, so Gorthalax has to very carefully structure his check-ins, suck it Helio, terrified of turning gluttonous, than being Big Horny for the stuff that once terrified me, that Performative Grossness, that confidence, that delicate balance between euphoria and toxicity, that hunger, that monetary cost, that they CHOOSE to fall, the magic armor makes it difficult to directly refuse gluttony, yep this is the tag we’re gonna lead with, yes my search history IS full of Aziraphale falling fics why do you ask
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22977427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponchard/pseuds/Rare%20Night%20Boy
Summary: Gorthalax strings Gilear up in the armor of gluttony.Set during FH:FY, with potential spoilers through FH:SY.Due to their access to resurrection, afterlives, and magic in general, Spyre’s concept of “safe, sane, and consensual” is pretty fucking light on the “safe”. EvenGilearis way more risk tolerant than a regular person would be IRL.Major CWs fordisordered eating, dubious consent (altered mental state), humiliation, and body image/body horror. Also contains unsafe bondage (neck stuff + unattended), references to Gorthalax fully torturing people, and one particularly gross bit of watersports.
Relationships: Gilear Faeth/Gorthalax the Insatiable, Gilear/Gorthalax, Gilearthalax, Gilthalax
Kudos: 12





	Gluttony

“You keep coming back to this room.” Gorthalax is aiming for _teasing_ , but the ensuing shout, followed by the unmistakable scent of piss, suggests he’s overshot into _menacing_. In retrospect, perhaps looming out of the shadows wasn’t the best option. Nor was the window-rattling bass, but that can’t really be helped. 

“I have a very weak bladder and I keep needing to go to the bathroom and your house is very confusing!” Gilear looks down sadly at the floor. “I suppose that won’t be necessary this time.”

“Uh, sorry about that.” He scratches awkwardly between his horns and lifts his other hand to vanish the puddle. But, well, he’s a devil. And something’s been nagging at him, ever since he noticed Gilear returning here, over and over. Something deep in the least wholesome part of his mind. For reasons he can’t quite explain, he cancels the cantrip. “There’s a bathroom right next to your room, isn’t there?”

“I’m afraid that bathroom is... no longer operational.”

“Gilear, you don’t need to be embarrassed about this, I can get it-“

“I may have summoned a swarm of evil bats. I was trying to turn on the shower and there were so many levers, one of them had an infernal rune that I thought meant ‘bath’, so I turned it.” He sighs. “I see now that it meant ‘bats’. I nearly died trying to escape them.”

“Oh, is that all? Happens to everyone. We can get that sorted out no problem.”

“Also the toilet _is_ clogged. But the bats are the main thing.”

“You should have told me! Want help finding your room?” He probably should have been expecting the flinch when he lays a guiding claw on Gilear’s shoulder. He’s about to apologize (again) when he catches Gilear’s eyes flicking from him to the empty armor stand. And oh no, there comes that unwholesome voice again. He narrows his eyes. “When did those bats happen?”

“That was about an hour ago. I get terrible night sweats and needed a quick midnight rinse-off, you know?”

Gorthalax casually tugs at one of the straps on his gorget, unsticking it from his skin. The neck plates are two halves of a monstrous jaw, its fangs clasping his chin. Gilear’s eyes flash up and away, almost too subtly to notice. “How many times have you gotten lost here?” 

He pulls the last strap free and peels it open. “I hope not too many. We’ve had incidents with these armors-“ he gestures broadly around the room, gorget in hand. Gilear’s staring now, glued to the hand itself rather than looking where it’s pointing. “You haven’t touched any of them, right?”

The Gilear he knows might respond fearfully. Or perhaps indignantly, if his ego decides to come up for air. 

The Gilear in front of him does neither. 

This Gilear licks his lip, shuffles uncomfortably in the urine puddle, and croaks out “not yet.”

Gorthalax feels a burning in his chest. He would swear up and down that temptation is a job, that fundamentally evil souls need to get from A to B, one way or another. That’s what you say in polite company. And Gilear is his guest (at least until Strongtower’s A/C situation gets sorted out), so he really _should_ be polite. He really should. 

“Would you rather settle in here?” A cup materializes in his claws. For the briefest instant, it feels hot. Cracked and glowing like embers. But then it’s just yogurt. Ordinary yogurt, fresh from the fridge, beads of humidity sparkling on its lid. He holds it out to Gilear. 

“It is the middle of the night.”

“Has that stopped you before?”

“I have been told that it should.”

He shrugs. “If you say so.” In a single smooth motion, he closes his fist, crushing the unopened cup. Streamers of dense white yogurt squeeze out between his fingers, rolling down his ruddy hand. He throws the mangled cup away, raises his arm to his mouth, and starts licking off the back of his wrist.

“What- what kind of yogurt is it?”

Gorthalax glances at him, half-lidded. “Probably not what you’d buy. Expensive.” His tongue makes it up the webbing between his fingers. As he works his way into the vee, yogurt streaks across his face. He flips his hand over to start on his palm. “It’s pretty good... or, I assume it is.” He opens his mouth, revealing a neat pile of ash. “They’re big on irony down here.”

“Does that also happen with-“

Gorthalax raises an eyebrow. “Do you really want to go there?” Gilear swallows heavily and flushes all the way down his body. _Hm. Not the standard response to jealousy._ Gorthalax chooses not to mention it, and goes back to sucking yogurt off his claws. 

“What would happen if I wore the armor of pride?” Gilear blurts out. 

“No.”

“No?”

“You may not. You’d be dead within hours, and Sandralynn would make damn sure I followed you.”

“Would she?”

“See, that’s exactly what I mean, bloodrush boy. Hard veto on the pride armor. And the lust armor, while we’re at it.”

“I hardly see why-“

“You gave up a career for a pair of, _in fairness_ , very cut ranger thighs? No touchy.” He finishes cleaning off his pinkie and walks over to the empty armor stand. It’s t-shaped, a thick vertical bar with a shoulder bar across it. He drapes the gorget over the top, and starts ripping at the straps of his bracers. Each if them looks like an impossibly dense ribcage, bones interleaved with bones, hinging open at their spines like picked-over carrion. When he sneaks a peek at Gilear, he’s frozen, pupils blown open, transfixed on Gorthalax. He roughly hooks the bracers onto each side of the shoulder bar, leaving them curving down underneath it.

“Okay. Last call. Do you want me to drop you off at your room, or do you want to stay here?” He thumps the armor stand, making it clank. 

“Here meaning..?”

The snarl rumbles out of him before he can stop it. “Last. Call.”

Gilear takes a step forward, socks squelching on the wet stone. “Is it safe?”

“Friend, if I understood ‘safe’, neither of us would be fathers.”

Wordlessly, Gilear takes a few more steps, then stops again.

“Say the word and we’ll go clear the bats out of your bathroom.” Gorthalax traces a claw around the inside of one of the bracers. “But if you want to find out what I do to gluttons, come here. Now.”

Gilear closes the distance. At this proximity, the armor stand towers over him. 

“Rad. Give me your arm.” When he extends it, Gorthalax grabs his wrist and lifts it at a sharp angle, bringing him up on his tiptoes. He wraps Gilear’s fingers around the bar right next to the bracer. “Hold tight. Don’t let your hand slip through that, or we’re both gonna have a real hell of a time getting you into the rest of it.” He slowly lets go of Gilear’s hand, watching his pasty arm and legs shake from overextension. “Are you good?”

Gilear nods.

“Other hand.” He does the same thing on the other side, then leans over Gilear to eyeball his skull size and loosely tie the gorget. He drops his hands to Gilear’s waist.

“So, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to lift you up through that,” he nods at the gorget, “and while I’m doing that, you need to slide your hands out. Whatever starts happening, whatever you start to feel, don’t let go of the bar, just keep sliding your arms out through those bracers. Can you do that?”

Gilear looks up at the gorget, hanging above him like an infernal halo. His shoulders flutter as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He grits his teeth. “I believe I can try.”

“Three. Two. One. Hup!” Gorthalax braces himself and lifts. The elf is light enough, but the moment his head passes through the gorget, he can feel his back start to arch. _Here we go._ “Focus! Focus! Hands through the loops!” he shouts, and presses Gilear flat with all of his devilish strength. He glimpses an arm flailing off the bar and darts out to redirect it, stuffing it through the bracer. He plants one hand on Gilear’s thrashing stomach and uses the other to pull the straps home, first on the arms and then around his neck. 

Once they’re secure, he lowers his hand and takes a breather. He’s wrestled much more violent souls into this armor, but they were already dead and harder to injure. This one required more finesse. “Are you able to breathe?”

Gilear, shuddering, face forced up by the lower jaw of the gorget, manages a half-nod. As soon as he locks eyes with him, his gaze drops to his mouth. Right. Gorthalax scoops the last bits of yogurt off his face and splays his fingers above Gilear’s head. 

He squirms and strains, neck swiveled up at the ceiling, unable to push himself up past the bracers’ support. “Please. Please!” He’s red already, pouring sweat. _Too easy._ Gorthalax jams his fingers in his own mouth and sucks them dry, then sticks out his ash-covered tongue and waggles it at his captive.

Then he turns around, waves off the candles, and exits the room. 

The next morning, Gorthalax returns to find Gilear _extremely_ awake. “Trance well?” he mumbles, around a thick forkful of waffle, glossy with compote and heavy cream. His whole face is smeared with reddish-purple juices. Trickles of ash run down the corners of his mouth. 

Gilear groans, but his eyes have a feverish intensity. “I would very much like to eat.” It comes out in a whisper, as if his throat’s been used raw. Where it’s needed, Hell has excellent soundproofing. 

Gorthalax stabs another chunk of waffle, bursting a blueberry with his fork. “It won’t taste the way you want it to.” He waves the fork under Gilear’s nose, just out of his range of movement. “Isn’t it better to smell it?”

“What do you want from me?”

A feral grin spreads across his face. “Catch!” He chucks the last of the waffle at Gilear’s face. With an uncharacteristic burst of strength, he lunges out and... misses it completely. It whacks the floor with a berry-flavored splat. His hands clench and unclench in their bonds as he slams his back against the crossbar. 

“Shame. That was the last freebie.” With a gesture, he summons in a sealed steel drum. The words “Aguefort Adventuring Academy” are stamped on the side. He lightly slaps the top of the drum, so full that it barely makes a noise. _Pch-pch-pch-pch._ “Don’t say you’ve never considered it, lunch lad.”

“They always have food left over. It would be wasteful not to.” His prissy tone is somewhat undercut by the sheet of drool dripping down his chin. 

“Oh, I’m not talking about a bite here or there.” He levers a claw under the lid, popping it open. He reaches in to stir some of the lukewarm beans with his hand. “I’m sure you’ve imagined it.”

The aroma — such as it is — hits Gilear, and his eyes fall closed. He’s panting now. Gorthalax leans in close, wet fistful of beans at his side. “The shock on those little shits’ faces.” He brings his fist up to Gilear’s chest and starts to unfurl his fingers, grinding smashed gobs of beans into his shirt. Gilear folds himself against the gorget, trying to get closer, but the high collar of teeth stops him short, digging into his chin and cheeks. Gorthalax grabs another fistful of beans and smears them down his shorts. “None of them will get any lunch today. And they’ll know _exactly_ why.” He presses a handful of beans onto his other leg, juices spiraling down through his leg hair and running into his socks. 

Gorthalax hefts the steel drum, still mostly full, and holds it up at chest height. Gilear cranes his neck, trying to keep line of sight on the beans. “You know you’re not really hungry, right?”

“It _is_ breakfast time.”

Gorthalax chuckles. “Okay, you’re a little hungry. But you’re not going to stop when you’re full, you realize that?” He sloshes the drum, which is almost as tall as Gilear. “If I let you have this-” 

Gilear whines hopefully. 

“-you’re going to keep eating and eating until your stomach hurts more than it’s ever hurt, and that isn’t going to stop you. You’re going to feel less and less satisfaction, and more and more pain, with every flavorless mouthful, and that isn’t going to stop you. Your soft little belly is going to pull at its seams, swelling out into a big ol’ floppy balloon, permanently, and that isn’t going to stop you. Your arms and neck are going to bear down on that armor, your hands and lips will go numb, and that isn’t going to stop you.” 

His tone is bored, as if he’s seen this thousands of times before. “If I give this to you, you’re going to keep swallowing and swallowing until it’s empty. Or until you pop like a fuckin’ goldfish, whichever comes first. And you better pray that I remember Sandralynn when you get close, because, frankly, I do love me some fireworks.” 

His gaze slides past Gilear. “Remind me: what did I say about that waffle?”

“Catch?”

“Huh, I did say that. But I also said _no more freebies_. Now, how do you think mortals like you pay for things down here?”

Gilear, still peering into the beans, chews at his lip. 

“Gilear! This is important. Do you understand what I’m asking for?”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the drum. Doesn’t raise his voice above a breath. But gods above and lords below, he sounds like a man in a dream.

“My soul.”

Gorthalax finds himself clearing his throat. _When did Hell get so hot?_ “Right,” he says gruffly, “yup. And that means choices.”

“My answer is yes.”

“Hold on, I’m not talking about-“

“My answer is yes, leave me in the armor.” He shifts in the restraints. “Look, I know you don’t care whether I want the food, but for the record: I do.” He rucks his legs up the pole, curling his toes against the wood. “Please?”

In a daze, Gorthalax gently tips the drum to his mouth, locking his arms against Gilear’s attempts to wrench it down with his teeth. He gulps the beans down without chewing, tears streaming down his face. With each pulse of his adam’s apple, watery tendrils of gluttony race down his throat, fringing out like paint in a wash cup. 

Pure gluttony isn’t hunger. It isn’t even decadence. It’s more like boredom. A joyless drive to consume and consume and consume, for no other reason than a dogged determination to see every other soul go hungry. Gluttony is power turned toward annihilation, careening headlong into its own open maw. 

Gilear is just a guy. 

The rot looks stark against his ordinary soul, and Gorthalax feels nearly dizzy at the sight of it. He finds evil people and gives them opportunities to sin. That’s the story. As Gilear twists beneath him, as his stomach fills and grows and distends, he’s no longer in polite company. 

The truth is that he could hook a finger in his mouth, right now, break open his jaw so he could never close it, and he could have him here for all eternity. All it would take is a little gold, a little charisma, a little lucky break. That’s all it takes for anyone. There are no fundamentally evil souls, only good toys. And Gilear would let him do it. Hell, he of all people _deserves_ to be a little selfish. 

Gorthalax pulls the drum away and sets it aside. Gilear tries to protest, but all that comes up is a flood of beans and bile. Gorthalax sets a hand on his stomach, feeling the weak recoil as far-too-tight skin is disturbed. Tests the unnatural weight of it against his palm. Fat would be useful. He won’t get any. All he’ll get out of this is a loose, blasted out gut that only cares about its own appetites. Dark veins of gluttony settle in, twining into his very nerves. Gorthalax can never be sated. That’s the whole deal. But ruining a mortal’s stomach... there’s a fullness to that. 

“So, how’d it taste?”

Gilear burbles, coughs, and finally speaks. “Terrible.”

“Want more?”

“Yes,” he says, quickly. 

“After all those beans, it seems like it’s time for dessert. Are you ready to try that fancy yogurt?”

Gilear nods eagerly. 

“Now, I should say, this is some pricey stuff. You remember our rule?”

“No freebies.”

“No freebies. Lucky for you, this one just costs money. I’d say about, oh, 320 gold and 55 silver.”

Gilear’s eyes widen. 

“That number ring a bell? Oh, right. Fig’s college fund.” He snorts. “Does she even know you have it? Seems awfully unfair, you saving and couponing while her other dad lives the high life down here.”

“Her other dad was, until very recently, trapped in a ruby.”

“I _was_ trapped. Was that gonna be your excuse? You keep tying yourself in knots to find ways to deny yourself. Shouldn’t you get to live a little too?”

Gilear works his jaw, as if biting back responses he wants to give. 

“It could be so easy.” He digs a finger into one of the bracers, working past the bones to the leather straps underneath. He can feel Gilear’s heartbeat, jumping out at his wrist. “I could hold my hand out like this-“ he extends his other hand, palm up, “and you’d watch as I drained your account, top to bottom. See?” Coins materialize above his hand one by one, plinking into a pile. Gilear gapes at the stream of coins, unable to tear his eyes away. Finally the coins slow, then stop, and Gorthalax flexes his hand around them. 

“Oh. Look how small that is. Months and months of sacrifice, and for what? Recognition? Love? All it took from me was one power chord.” He twirls a couple coins between his fingers. “You might as well eat it, for all the good it’s doing. Treat yourself to something nice.”

Without breaking eye contact, he tugs downward with his other hand, starting to loosen one of the straps. He doesn’t get very far before he feels Gilear’s hand close over his, and very deliberately move it up and out of the bracer. Once it’s gone, Gilear snakes his hand sideways and nips the slack end of the strap between two fingers, cinching it tight around his own wrist.

“No freebies.”

At that, Gorthalax tosses the coins into the air. They stall into a twinkling column, a raindrop’s bounce caught on high-speed crystal. With a twitch of his index finger, they begin to melt, still suspended in midair. Tiny gold and silver droplets fall back into his palm, splashing and roiling into a squarish, roundish shape. All at once, the melting accelerates, and a yogurt cup snaps into form, spoon and all.

Gorthalax engulfs the spoon in his meaty paw and gives it a couple stirs, lifting it out so Gilear can see. He lurches forward in frustration when Gorthalax eats the first heaping spoonful himself. He smacks his lips like a gourmand, ash puffing out of his mouth. “Hm. Underseasoned. Could use some salt.” 

He sticks the spoon back into the cup and reaches for Gilear’s leg, sliding his thumb inside his sock. “That’s the trouble with rich fucker food.” The wet sock scrunches and unscrunches, catching every wrinkle on his pruney foot. “Every flavor has to be so subtle.” He wiggles it the last bit off, balls it up in his fist, and wrings it into the cup. 

He gives the yogurt a few more businesslike stirs, blending it into the barest off-white. He loads up the spoon. Brings it to Gilear’s mouth. His throat pulses, ravenous, and the yogurt passes through the boundary from body to soul; thick, creamy, and inkiest black. 

~~~

Gilear shuts the door behind him and listens as Fig and Wretchrot walk down the hall. Once they’re out of earshot, he sags against the wall, laughing softly. He almost feels like a teenager himself.

After a moment, he rummages through his pockets, digging out a toothbrush and comb. Humming to himself, he pads his way to a very familiar door. As he reaches for the knob, candlelight splashes across a thin leather strap, tucked right up next to his wristwatch, throwing bright lines and shadows onto the infernal runes. 

He smiles, turns the knob...

...and is greeted by a torrent of screeching bats. 

“Oh no.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this soft Gilearthalax fluff, you might also like [By Order of the Phoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21572287), which contains 100% less pee and about 75% more wizard dick.


End file.
